


Sacrifice

by Mrs_Stiltskin (Lady_Belles_Teacup)



Series: Changing the Stars [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Forced Object Penetration, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Multiple Partners, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Work, Sex Worker Rumple, Sexual Violence, Threats of Violence, Urination, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports, Whump, forced anal sex, piss drinking, rough anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Belles_Teacup/pseuds/Mrs_Stiltskin
Summary: Sometimes, a desperate soul does what he must to feed his family - and sometimes more is taken than was ever offered. Rumplestiltskin will do a lot, but he will never let his boy want for anything, no matter what he has to sacrifice to make it so.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Milah, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Milah/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Changing the Stars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1228370
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Spinner in Chains series when Dark One Belle asks poor spinner, Rumplestiltskin, if he's ever sold his sexual services to feed his son, and he reluctantly admits that he has. This story is not for the faint of heart. Spinner Rumple gets more than he bargained for when his last punter of the night is none other than Killian Jones. 
> 
> Consent to one sexual act does not mean consent to another. Sex workers can be raped. These things happen and they are terrible. These things happen in this story. It is a dark fic. Please mind the tags and triggers. 
> 
> I would like to thank my beta, the lovely ProtoChan (@TheOnceOverthinker on tumblr) for her patience, and for helping me polish this story from it's rough beginning to what it is now. And for the fantastic cover art! LOVE YOU!

The idea of sacrifice wasn't a foreign one to Rumplestiltskin. In fact, over the course of his life, sacrifice had become almost as familiar to his meager existence as was breathing. Often, he wondered if some of the sacrifices he made would ever become easier. Time and harsh experience had taught him to not hope for such things, and yet here he was once again -- a fool for daring to entertain that very possibility. 

As Rumple watched his son eat with careful eyes, it was all too clear that the thin porridge he’d prepared wasn’t going to be nearly enough to adequately feed his growing, rambunctious boy. There hadn’t been much more than a handful each of barley and millet left in the pantry when he’d checked, but the lame spinner had done all he could to augment the poor fare into something more substantial. Adding a few soggy blackberries that were well past their prime and the last dregs of golden honey that he’d managed to harvest weeks ago from a fallen tree at the edge of the pasture had earned him a huge grin as little Baelfire began to tuck into his meal. It wasn’t much, but it was the last of what he'd laid aside, and it would have to do until morning. Needs must, he thought, sipping quietly at the scalding bowl of weak tea that was his own poor supper. He winced as the tea burned its way down his throat, though he welcomed the sense of fullness that followed as it warmed his empty belly.

He was only a humble spinner, albeit a skilled one, creating beautiful woolen yarns and threads from the few sheep he kept. Each bundle of fibre was painstakingly dyed from a variety of colors both subtle and vibrant, producing skein upon skein of the highest quality. He also wove fine cloth -- delicate, yet strong, and as aesthetically lovely as it was useful. The aunties who reared and trained him had boasted many a time that he could practically spin straw into gold. This unique combination of innate talent and learned skills should, by all means, have made him a moderately wealthy man. However, fate didn’t have that in store for him. No, that cruel mistress saw to it that he be shunned by the entire local populace for refusing to fight and die in the Ogre’s War. 

Life as the village coward would have been difficult to manage regardless of circumstances, but when his wife Milah had chosen to abandon their family for the promise of adventure on the high seas, it became practically impossible. Before she’d left, his embittered wife had made it known far and wide exactly why he’d returned from the front lines when so many others hadn’t, by taking a sledgehammer to his own ankle. So instead of a reputation as the man who had modest and moderate success in his trade, or even just as the man who died honorably in battle, he became reviled as the man who ran. No one cared that he’d only been desperate to meet his infant son, to be a father to his boy rather than useless fodder on the front lines of a terrible, pointless war, to be something more than just another tragic tale. Now, disgrace and dishonor clung to him like lanolin to his wool, a disagreeable stench that no one welcomed. In the eyes of so many -- including even himself -- he was less than the dirt other men trod upon. 

Even if Rumple himself had been able to hobble along with his wares to the sizable markets of Longbourne or Avonlea, lands well outside his own tiny, unnamed village, little Bae was too young to walk the long distances. Unfortunately, moving to such a town, far enough away from theirs to be ignorant of the shame and discredit that now came with merely patronizing his wares, was simply out of reach as well as out of the question. 

And yet, every market day without fail, Rumple faithfully set up his stall in the village square, even if he knew that all that would meet him would be the sight of his neighbors, people he’d known his whole life, pretending that he didn’t exist. They would avert their eyes and hurry by with their children, on to other vendors, talking and laughing and haggling for this or that. Of course, they had no qualms about knocking on his door in the dead of night when they were desperate, when they needed to mend a torn garment, or make something necessary between market days. Beyond that though, his business to his village was like poison to a rat. It was a lucky day when the occasional stranger chanced to stop by his stall on their way through town. On occasion, he was able to sell a thing or two to travelling merchants as they crossed by his stretch of the market, or to the traders and shipmasters on the docks, but it was hard, and there was never enough to even scrape by. He and his son constantly existed on the brink of starvation.

“Papa, I’m still hungry,” Baelfire whined after scraping the last bits of porridge from the bottom of his rough wooden bowl. Rumple couldn’t help but think how pale he looked. He needed a solid supper with meat and root vegetables and thick slices of hearty bread. His own stomach growled at the memories of real, hot food, but he pushed them away. Better that his own stomach remain empty tonight, at least for now. He tousled the boy’s brown curls, a burst of love exploding through his chest.

“Go fetch some milk and I’ll warm it in the pan,” he instructed, tears filling his eyes as he watched the boy trot out the open door and into the looming dark. He dashed them away with the back of his hand. It wouldn’t do for his boy to see his papa cry. Bae was such a happy child, thoughtful and studious, and not the least bit to blame for their current woes. Desperation crept over his skin, worming its way into his mind and making him want to crawl into a corner and hide, but he knew that would do nothing to help the situation and would only upset Bae. There had to be _something_ he could do.

Despite their circumstances, Rumple had never allowed his son to go truly hungry, nor allowed himself to ever truly give into his own despair. His responsibility to the boy had always been paramount, and he was a resourceful man, disadvantaged though he was. Baelfire was the only beautiful thing in his world, his only love, and his only care. He would have lain down and turned to dust long ago but for that responsibility, it drove him, that and the love that burned in his chest, hotter than the crimson flames of the Ogres War. 

It occurred to him as he sat and brooded, that there were ways for him to do right by his boy, no matter the cost to his own dignity. Ways that he’d resorted to in the past, when moved by desperation, and though every copper earned might cost more dear to his own spirit than the boy would ever know, the sacrifice would undoubtedly be worth it.

Revulsion, but something else as well, tugged low in his belly as he decided that there was one sure way for him to make a bit of coin before morning. It was one way that men wouldn’t cavil to the thought of emptying their meager purses into his hands. He shuddered and took another sip of his scalding tea, the only supper he would eat tonight. His stomach _would_ be filled, though not with food or any substance most would wish to ingest. No, for what he understood he must do, it was best to go out on an empty stomach -- the less he retched, the easier it would go. Pushing the unwelcome thought aside, he cleared his mind, focusing for the moment on the joy of youthful exuberance as his son returned.

“Papa! Papa!” Bae rushed in, his cup sloshing with a portion of rich sheep’s milk so small that the lambs would hardly miss it. Rumple took the cup from the boy’s hands and sent him a wide, approving smile.

“Good job, Bae,” he praised, pouring the milk into a little pan and setting it on the edge of the coals. He leaned on his staff, his twisted leg stuck out at an awkward angle as he crouched down to stir it, making sure it didn’t scald or boil. “You’re learning so quickly. I’m very proud of you, son.”

Bae beamed at him, brown eyes, a mirror to his own, huge and sparkling, his cheeks ruddy from the cold spring air. The eight year old leaned on his papa’s knee while he stirred the milk, and the lame spinner put an arm around the boy to hold him close, the warmth of his little body making him forget the troubles of the world for a joyful moment.

Too soon, Bae was tucked up in the big bed with a pile of cozy sheepskins stacked on top of him. Rumple snuggled down beside him, pressing his lips to his son’s forehead.

“I’m still hungry,” the boy murmured, even as his eyelids began to droop.

“I know you are, son,” Rumple crooned, combing through the boy’s unruly hair with gentle fingers. “There will be food in the morning,” he promised reassuringly. “Bread and cheese and rashers of bacon. You’ll see. But for now, you must stay in bed while Papa goes out for a bit.”

“Yes, Papa.” 

“I mean it, Bae. You stay right here in this bed,” he admonished, waiting until his son acknowledged the charge with sleepy eyes. Rumple hated leaving the boy alone, it went against every parental instinct he possessed, but he had no choice. “Not even the privy. Only the pot. It’s just here.” He pointed to the rough, covered bucket next to the bed, and Bae nodded.

“Yes, Papa,” he murmured sleepily. Within moments, the soft sound of Bae’s snoring filled the small, darkened hovel. Needs must, he thought again, and not for the last time that night. It wasn’t as though he left him for pleasure seeking and carousing, as Milah had so often done. No, taking the child where he was going was out of the question, and none of the neighbors would take him in, even for the night. More than even the promise of what would be in store for him tonight, that sentiment disgusted him. Their small minds worried that the taint of cowardice might creep into their beds just by housing his child for an evening, nevermind that the boy himself was as bold as a lion and utterly blameless for his father’s misdeeds. 

Watching the even rise and fall of his son’s thin chest for a few precious moments sent a flood of love and tenderness through Rumple’s chest that, for an instant, threatened to dissolve him into useless tears. Instead, he shoved those feelings down ruthlessly, compressing them into an iron ball of determination that settled into his core. Tonight, he would borrow from his son’s brash temperament and do what needed to be done. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Bae. Everything’s gonna be just fine,” he whispered softly. Pressing a gentle kiss to his son’s brow, Rumple slipped reluctantly from the warmth and comfort of the bed and out into the chill, forbidding night.

* * *

Leaning heavily on the hewn staff, a tool that had proven itself over the years to be useful for both necessity and protection, Rumple loitered in the shadows near the tavern. What he waited for was easy -- solitary men, no groups. He’d made the mistakes of dealing with men that were in groups only once before. He thought he could be done with the night’s work quickly, only to find that men in groups egged each other on, tending to enact violence and evil deeds far easier than they normally would when alone. That mistake had been paid for with blood and bruises, the ones inside far less painful than those that couldn’t be hidden from his son. He would choose to show himself only when he felt safe -- or as safe as he could feel when kneeling in the dirt in a darkened alley.

As for tonight, he’d already had several takers, lonely men leaving the tavern, full to the brim with drink and frustration. Having spent their evening chugging piss-poor swill and leering after the bar wenches’ heaving breasts or groping their plump bottoms left them eager for a bit of rough. Though it also left them with little coin in their purses, and even littler prospects for satisfaction save for their own clumsy hands. Rumple had discovered that a few short minutes on his knees was worth a handful of coppers. When the gods were merciful, most of the drunken louts lasted no more than a few quick thrusts, and those were the easiest to bear. He’d learned very quickly to be as clever with his mouth as he was with his hands. Discovering the art of hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue just so around a punter’s shaft, along with the firm grip of his fist around the base, made him quick and efficient at his craft. Soon enough his own purse was jingling with small coins. That said, it was hardly pleasant. His stomach roiled with the foul taste of humiliation and his jaw had already begun to ache. 

As much as he felt shame, kneeling in the dirt and sucking other men’s cocks for money, there was a part of Rumple that had decided long ago that he deserved nothing more than to take what those men gave him. He was nothing. A coward and a cuckold. His wife had long since gone off with men who were bigger and stronger than he -- bold men who fought for and took what they wanted, and at times like these, he almost felt she was right to do so. There was another part of him that raged quietly for the responsibility she had abdicated. But for her absence, he could have traveled to sell his wares, lessening their struggle. 

Was it truly shameful? He wondered this, even as he hoped for a few more easy marks so that he could end his night’s work before he pushed his luck too far. Surely, there should be no indignity in doing whatever one could to feed their child. He had never felt anything but compassion for the all but invisible women who worked the docks and alleyways with their barefoot, squalling children in tow. Could a father be expected to do any less? And if the faintest stirrings of arousal made it less intolerable, was that shameful, too?

His contemplation was interrupted by a taller, rough-looking man he didn’t recognize, and his two stout compatriots, stumbling drunkenly from the tavern. Rumple melted back into the darkness, holding his breath until the man’s clearly inebriated companions tripped off in the opposite direction, their raucous shouting and singing fading into silence. The stranger lounged against a wooden railing, his feet crossed at the ankles, and he seemed in no hurry to be off anywhere else, either. He took a generous swig from a small leather flask, wiping glistening droplets from his mouth with the back of his hand. Rumple felt an anxious prickle of familiarity lift the hairs at the back of his neck, and he studied the stranger for a long moment, hesitating. 

Clad in all in black leather, the man wore an elaborate vest and surcoat that gleamed with row upon row of silver buttons. His boots were well-heeled and shining, and thick chains of silver hung heavily around his neck. Rumple’s pulse quickened. The man was obviously wealthy, and not unattractive. Perhaps he would be willing to part with a silver coin. 

A silver coin would mean he could afford to go home straight afterwards, scrub his mouth with salt and water, and curl up beside his sleeping boy, closing them both away from the cruelty of the world for the short time between then and dawn. Dismissing the passing augur as nothing more than his own lack of fortitude, he steeled his nerves and emerged from the shadows with a furtive step. 

The other man glanced up sharply, his stance instantly wary and ready for a threat, but it was only the slender spinner beckoning for him to slip into the shadows. 

“Twenty-five coppers.” Rumple nodded toward the darkened alley, giving the man a seductive once over, his smile coy, his long hair shining softly in the lamplight. Few would argue that he wasn’t a pretty one. “One silver, and I’ll be sure to polish the stones as well as the staff.”

The stranger’s gaze turned lustful as it roamed his face and body, and Rumple felt the first stirrings of desire begin to pool in his own belly, mixing with the shame that inevitably churned there. The man was raven-haired and fair-skinned, his blue eyes, shocking for their sheer brightness, rimmed with kohl in the pirate tradition. His lip curled as he leered cockily down his nose at the poor wretch offering his only asset -- a warm and willing mouth. 

“Twenty coppers and you’ll swallow whatever I give you, cunt. Bawbag an’ all. Got it?” He spat menacingly.

Rumple took a shuddering breath, his stomach curling in on itself as his skin tingled with unease. The stranger’s mocking, nasty tone did nothing to disguise the thinly veiled threat that lurked behind the obvious insult, and if he reneged, or tried to walk away, there could be violence, or possibly worse. His fingers opened and closed fitfully around his staff, praying to the silent gods that acquiescence would spare him any trouble and the man would be quick about the business at hand. Twenty coppers was better than nothing, and better yet than a knife in the gut. Schooling the grimace that wanted to be born, he nodded his reluctant agreement.

“Brilliant. So much less effort when we agree,” the larger man sneered, spreading his arms wide and forcing Rumple back into the shadowed alley. Rumple stumbled, catching himself with his walking stick. “You can call me Captain, or better yet, Sir, and I’ll call you… well, whatever I want, slag,” he scoffed, chuckling at his own joke. Rumple blanched, a frisson of fear racing through him. This was a pirate indeed. He thought of his wife with a shudder, and for a moment he wondered if this man had ever crossed paths with her. 

“Aye, Captain... Sir,” Rumple nodded, pushing himself upright. His thumb rubbed fretfully over a simple pattern of notches carved in his staff -- one for each of Baelfire’s birthdays. He counted them in his head, his eyes fixed on the layer of grime that had collected on the toes of the captain’s otherwise shining boots.

Thick silver rings glinted in the moonlight as the man’s vicious fingers pressed into his jaw, shoving his head back sharply against the hewn planks of the tavern wall. Splinters pierced his scalp. Hot breath, smelling of stale rum and tobacco, ghosted over his face. Rumple tried to calm his rapid breathing, swallowing past the lump in his throat and trying desperately not to flinch away lest the captain sense his terror and turn angry fists upon him if he appeared anything less than enthusiastic.

Sharp nails dug crescents of pain he hoped wouldn’t turn to visible bruises on his cheeks as the captain covered his mouth and kissed him hard. Thick, coarse stubble scraped and chafed against his own smooth chin, and Rumple’s eyes flew open as the man’s heavy tongue forced its way past his lips, stroking urgently against the roof of his mouth. Ungentle teeth sunk into his bottom lip, a sharp stab of pain lancing through him, and Rumple sagged, tasting the by now familiar coppery tang of blood. His whimper of distress allowed the other man to push his tongue deep -- invading, dominating, and insistent. Blood rushed to Rumple’s groin, and he could feel the sly, twisting pleasure that so often burned in his gut right alongside the ever-present pain and humiliation.

Rumple’s stomach lurched; anticipation, trepidation, and admitted arousal warring for dominance as he prepared himself for what was to come. 

“You smell like sheep,” the captain complained, biting at Rumple’s gasping lips, slippery silver strands of saliva stretching and snapping between the two of them. The other man’s tongue continued to stab and thrust, probing and swirling while Rumple’s breath came hard in his chest. Arousal rose up through him and overwhelmed his senses in spite of his fear. Kissing, for him, had always meant little more than the chaste press of lips on a forehead or cheek, but this crude, battle of lips and tongues made tingles of excitement dance across his skin. 

“But your mouth tastes sweet,” the other man murmured into his mouth, “and I can’t wait to feel it wrapped around my cock.” He sucked in Rumple’s full bottom lip, quietly moaning under his breath as he worried it, his tongue sliding across wetly before withdrawing. 

The stranger opened his eyes, and their gazes locked. He made a noise of disgust before shoving Rumple’s head back sharply, cracking his skull hard against the rough beams. Bright lights burst behind his eyelids, obscuring his vision, but the stabbing pain shot straight to his groin, and the twitch of his cock as it surged, leaking fluids onto his own thigh, made him shiver.

“I fucking hate sheep.”

“I’m...I’m sorry, sir,” Rumple mumbled. His cheeks were flaming, his lower lip wobbling. He willed away the stinging tears that burned behind his eyelids, refusing to let one fall, refusing to give himself away.

The captain’s full lips contorted into a wicked smirk, an evil glint in his ice blue eyes, and Rumple lowered his gaze. He could feel the larger man’s utter contempt break like waves over his body, pulling a low whine from his chest, and yet for a brief moment he yearned for the other man to kiss him again. Instead, a gob of spit landed in Rumple’s gasping mouth, spattering across his lips, and his tongue darted out to lap it up. Cruel fingers snatched a fistful of his long hair, wrenching his head back.

“Gods, I have to piss like a fucking racehorse.” The captain grinned mirthlessly, his cold glare unrelenting. Lifting an eyebrow, he dribbled a handful of coins into the dirt at Rumple’s feet. 

“On your knees and open up wide, runt,” he ordered. 

Rumple blanched. It wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had been requested of him. Although, in the past, he’d always managed to refuse or escape, but now the captain’s heavy, black leathers and gruff demeanor made him seem so much larger and stronger that resistance felt impossibly dangerous. He trembled, a tiny sob escaping him, and prayed again to the nameless gods that there would be no trouble if he acquiesced.

“I said, on your fucking knees, slut,” the other man growled, lunging at Rumple with the speed of a diving hawk about to snatch a skittering mouse. Meaty hands shoved him down hard by the shoulders, forcing him to his knees. His bad ankle screamed, but he didn’t dare move to readjust, he just bit his own cheek and bore the pain in silence. 

“You’d better make me believe you’re enjoying this or I’ll beat the fucking piss out of you and take back my money. Got it, cur?” Spittle flew from his lips and Rumple nodded frantically, hands shaking as he fumbled to unlace the captain’s leather breeches and free the man’s bulging cock.

“Aye, sir,” he managed, steeling himself to accept what was about to happen. It was what he deserved, right? He was nothing but a willing hole waiting to be taken, filled, and used to satisfy the basest whims of his betters. Humiliation and contempt were his constant and familiar companions, along with a burning need to be used in the most depraved ways and discarded like human refuse. He was beneath even the lowliest whore. The man looked down at him, white teeth gleaming in a leering, lascivious grin.

“You are a pretty one, ain’t ye?” He seized Rumple by the hair and dragged his head back, using his other hand to push aside his breeches and allow his half-hard cock to spring free. It was thick and heavy, and already beginning to lengthen from it’s nest of coarse black hair. “Open up, my little slut. I’ve got some ale for ye.” He roared with mocking laughter, and pain shot through Rumple’s scalp as rough fingers twisted and pulled. He screwed his eyes shut and opened his mouth, prepared for the vile fluid to splash across his face. 

“Open your eyes, cunt, and look at me while I fill your worthless gullet.” 

Hot shame blazed through his body, meeting the other man’s withering gaze as the pungent liquid began to stream into his mouth. “You’d better swallow every drop,” he admonished, and Rumple nodded weakly, gulping it down as quickly as he dared to keep from heaving. The captain let out a contented sigh as the stream increased, filling his mouth to the brim, and he tried desperately not to induce any ire by choking and gagging as he struggled to swallow it all down.

The captain twitched and grunted, jerking him by the hair as he finished, but somehow Rumple managed to take it all, strong and bitter, and making him want so badly to retch. But he couldn’t. He told himself it was only liquid, and less foul than the rank odor of the alley he was currently kneeling in. Letting another man piss down his throat was merely the price he paid for his own dismal failure.

Rumple’s only reward was a languid, satisfied groan as the last drops dribbled onto his tongue. Taking the initiative, he drew back the captain’s foreskin, wrapping his lips around the thick, smooth head and sucking his cock clean. Flicking and swirling his stiff tongue into the narrow slit at the tip made the other man’s hips jerk forward accompanied by a soft, muttered curse. 

“Fuck. Yes. That’s my good whore,” the captain urged. “Now suck me good. I want to feel your nose against my belly while I wreck your worthless throat.”

The spinner nodded, moaning as the other man grew thick and rigid between his lips, stretching Rumple’s jaw as he tried in vain to take him all the way inside. He worked his mouth up and down the thickly veined shaft, his tongue dragging along the underside and his cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard at the spongy, purple tip, trying to bring the other man off, and hoping to get it over with quickly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the captain hissed. Sliding himself out of the spinner’s mouth and gripping him by the back of the head. His other hand caught under Rumple’s jaw and he pressed his fingertips in roughly, making him gasp with pain.

“We’re gonna take this nice and slow,” he whispered in Rumple’s ear. His voice was husky with arousal and dripping with venom. “You’re gonna swallow my fat cock down that skinny neck of yours until it bulges out the sides. You’re gonna lick my stones while I’m stuffed all the way down your worthless, fucking, bilge rat throat.” His lip turned up into a vicious sneer, icy blue eyes glinting with gleeful malice. “And then I’m gonna fuck your pretty skull like you’ve never been fucked in your life -- hard and fast and oh, so very, very deep. When I shoot my load, it’s gonna be practically in your belly. Got it?”

“Yes, Captain.” Rumple trembled, curling in on himself. For several heartbeats, he held his breath, wondering if there would be swift judgement for using the wrong honorific, but relief washed over him as the moment passed. Closing his eyes and opening his mouth, he willed his body to obey as he once again took the domed head between his lips and began to work methodically up and down. Saliva began to flow, coating the thick, rigid shaft in slick lubricant and dribbling unheeded down his chin. He reached up to grip the base in his hand, only to receive a stinging slap. He flinched back with a whimper.

“No hands, cunt,” the captain snapped, driving his hips forward and beginning to thrust. “Try that again and you’ll fucking lose them.” 

Wrapping his lips carefully around his teeth, Rumple applied pressure down the slippery shaft and back up, swirling his tongue around the tip before plunging back to the base again and again. Each time, he managed to take the thick member further and further, until the head began to hit the back of his throat. Closing up convulsively, his throat pushed back against the foreign intrusion, and he glugged loudly to keep from gagging and retching. Sharp fingernails dug into his scalp, and he forced himself to open up, relaxing and allowing the larger man’s cock to penetrate fully into his esophagus with each brutal thrust as the pace increased. 

With his throat bulging and eyes streaming, Rumple yielded completely to the rhythmic pounding. Treacherous arousal twisted and curled in his belly. His abdomen tightened as the other man gripped his hair and fucked his mouth like it was a whore’s sloppy cunt, hips snapping, and balls slapping against his spit-covered chin. Surrendering to the other man’s greater strength, he became nothing more than the unresisting hole the captain required. Desperate, feral grunts accompanied the sharp twinges of pain each time his tender throat was stretched open. His own cock pulsed and throbbed, begging for friction even though he dared not act on his desire. 

“There we go, whore,” the captain crooned as he ground his hairy belly against Rumple’s face, balls deep in his wide open, unresisting throat. “There we go. Now, stick out your tongue and polish my stones like a good wench.”

With his nose crushed hard against flesh and his throat stuffed full of cock, letting his tongue slide out to massage the captain’s balls made it impossible for Rumple to breathe. In moments, his heart was beating frantically against his ribcage like a trapped bird. He struggled to pull back, but the captain held fast, viciously driving his cock deeper, and Rumple’s throat began to spasm in panic, drawing a sharp curse and a gasp of pleasure from his tormentor. Pure animal instinct urged his body to twist away with every ounce of his strength, his gorge rising, but the captain only held on tighter and thrust more violently, his groans guttural as the spinner’s convulsing throat gripped him like a vise. Rumple could hold off no longer, desperately fisting his own cock and tugging roughly even as the edges of his vision began closing in, his chest contracting in the futile attempt to draw breath. 

Finally, the captain released his head and Rumple reared back, coughing and spitting, tears streaming down his face, his thin chest heaving painfully for each ragged breath. The captain's eyes locked on Rumple’s hand as it clenched around his own cock and he smirked, stroking a gentle finger down his tear-stained cheek.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” He tutted, chucking him under the chin. “You’re such a filthy little cock-sucker, practically begging for more. Do you want me to give it to you?”

“Aye, sir!” Rumple gasped, stroking himself through his thin breeches as he took the captain to the hilt once more, his moans of pleasure vibrating and pulsing against the cock he was trying to swallow whole. Being used so thoughtlessly made him tingle all over, his own member growing more turgid with each snap of the other man’s hips, and with each painful tug on his tender scalp. He slid his tongue all the way out, trying to capture the pungent flavor of the captain’s scrotum, and his mind wandered to the talented sword swallowers he and Bae had marveled at during the market fairs. Would he now be able to perform such a feat?

An irrational urge to laugh bubbled up in his chest, and desire alongside it, throbbing insistently in his groin. He found himself desperate for that final burst of salt and musk to spread across his tongue and slide down his throat -- the irrefutable evidence of pleasure given. Soon, he was breathless again, inducing another brief moment of panic as he struggled for air while being choked mercilessly on the captain’s cock. The tunnel of darkness closed in further this time, encroaching on his vision until a scant second before he passed out, he was once again released to gasp desperately for air.

Rumple groaned, pulling frantically at his own rigid member as he filled his lungs, his face streaked with dust and tears. Ducking his head, he took one of the captain’s balls into his mouth, rolling it on his tongue and sucking gently. The tangy smell of flesh was sharp and pungent in his nose, and he listened for moans of pleasure before letting it slip from between his lips with a wet ‘pop’, nuzzling the soft sack and lapping at it with the flat of his tongue. He crouched down further, sliding his tongue up and under, urging the other man’s thighs wider so he could lick eagerly at the musky, puckered hole behind. The guttural groans of the man writhing above him shot straight to his own groin as he swirled and stabbed his tongue up inside. He moved back to slurp and suck at the captain’s sack and the firm globes within, nibbling gently at the smooth stretch of skin beyond before stiffening his tongue to thrust it once again as deeply as it would go inside the other man’s tight, warm channel.

“Fuck, yes. Suck my arse. Oh, fuck. Yes.” The captain moaned as he ground himself down onto Rumple’s eager, probing tongue. Deep groans rumbled from his chest. “Lick it clean, my dirty, filthy little slag.” He was every bit the depraved, desperate whore that the captain named him.

Suddenly, the world shifted, pain bursting like lightning in his head as Rumple found himself face down and flat on the ground. A rough hand at the back of his head drove his tear streaked face into the dirt, an implacable knee dug painfully into his back. The captain reached behind to tug at Rumple’s breeches, and the spinner began to writhe, scrabbling frantically to escape, but the larger man grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched his head back until he subsided. 

“If you do not yield, I will slit your throat from ear to ear and leave you in this gutter for your son to find -- covered in blood, with that walking stick so far up your arse it's coming out your mouth. Understand?” Spittle struck the side of his face, the menacing whisper vibrating in his ear and making his body tremble. Pain shot through his scalp when the captain gave his head a vicious jerk. “Understand?” 

Rumple nodded miserably, stammering out his acquiescence.

“Yes, sir.”

The captain slammed his face once more into the dirt, splitting his lip. Blood and gravel and grit coated his lips and tongue. He coughed and spit to try and clear his mouth, but the captain was already ripping his thin tunic and cutting away the ties of his breeches with a sharp knife.

“Spread your legs, cunt. This is going to hurt.” 

The captain's coarse hands parted his arse cheeks and Rumple felt a surge of panic ripple through him as a glob of thick, viscous spittle landed on his tight, puckered hole. He’d never been buggered, not by anything more girthy than his own tentative fingers at any rate. He knew such things were not unheard of, and though the offer of coin had been made by lustful punters before, he’d been too afraid to accept. Mostly they’d gone on without incident. Until tonight.

“Please, no, no, no! Not that! Not that!” He begged and squirmed, but the captain had a bruising grip on his slender hips, and he felt the bulbous head of the larger man’s leaking cock press insistently against his virgin hole. 

The captain’s ringed fist came down, brandishing a shining blade at eye level and he whimpered, reluctantly subsiding. The other man leaned forward, his coarse stubble scraping against Rumple’s ear, and making him tremble violently. 

“You’re going to tell me just how badly you want me to fuck your tight, sweet, smooth little arsehole,” he murmured, nipping at the spinner’s earlobe. The tip of his knife grazed the prone man’s cheek, drawing tiny droplets of crimson blood while his other hand stroked the firm globes of his buttocks. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I - I... please...no!” Rumple stammered, breathless and pleading, his face twisted into a grimace of pure anguish. The razor sharp knife sliced deeper, piercing his consciousness as sharply as it pierced his skin. He couldn’t let his son grow up fatherless. He just couldn’t. Memories and fear rose up within him, paralyzing him, even as his rigid cock still throbbed and twitched between his legs, betraying his desire. “Stop, stop! Please, Sir! I’m sorry! I'm sorry - I want your cock. In my arse. I want it! I need it!” He sobbed.

“Now, beg me to ream you senseless, and fill your cock-hungry guts with my seed.” He stroked Rumple’s smooth flesh, squeezing roughly before giving it a stinging slap.

A ragged sob broke from his lips, but somehow Rumple managed to obey the order. 

“Please, sir, please fuck my worthless hole,” he rasped, grinding out the words, his abused throat choking on them. “Use me like a whore, I beg you.” As he said the words, his own belly clenched with arousal, his nerves dancing and skin tingling.

“As you wish,” the captain chuckled in his ear, lapping at it with his tongue. Rumple held his breath, eyes screwed shut, and waited, his entire body quaking with terror.

He gasped and shook as his unyielding sphincter was breached by the generous girth of the other man’s cock. The stabbing, stinging pain was unrelenting and intense and his anus clenched around the invading shaft, involuntary spasms rejecting the assault, but the captain was stronger and weight was on his side. He forced himself into the tight, grasping hole despite the feeble cries of its pathetic owner. Soon, the captain was balls deep, the rigid length of him clasped tight in the spinner’s soft, hot, sucking channel.

Burning shame flamed across his cheeks, and Rumple began to sob quietly. He’d brought this on himself, and there was no choice now but to give himself over to it. The captain withdrew almost completely before snapping his hips forward and burying himself to the hilt once again. Pain lanced from the abused ring of tense muscle as it was stretched without mercy or respite. The captain spit again, coating his thick shaft with the slippery lubricant, and he began to thrust viciously, rutting like a beast, unheeding of any damage he was wreaking on the broken man being ground to dust beneath him. 

Rumple’s guts twisted, his fingernails scraping at the earth in his anguish, while tiny bits of rock and shell tore into the sensitive quick beneath. The captain’s heavy palm on the back of Rumple’s head crushed his face into the sharp gravel, and every cruel thrust ground his blood and tears into the dirt. 

Unwelcome arousal flared in Rumple’s belly, his body inevitably opening and yielding to the brutal, pounding fuck. His rectum was so full, he feared it might burst, but something deep within was being stimulated by the relentless assault. The undeniable tension of impending climax began to build in his abdomen as the other man slammed into him again and again with ruthless force. His treacherous cock was rock hard and leaking fluid continuously, trapped against his belly, and he moaned loudly.

“You like that, eh?” the captain grunted, ramming deep and staying there. He ground his hips against Rumple’s buttocks, tearing feral, rasping moans from his throat. “I knew you would. That’s why you’re out here. You pretend it’s for money, but I know you, Spinner, I know how much you wanted this. You don’t remember me, but I know who you are. I know you’re a weak, spineless coward who deserves exactly what he gets,” he hissed.

Rumplestiltskin's heart nearly burst out of his mouth, his pulse racing and his belly turning to water. 

He remembered. 

He remembered the clatter of a rusty cutlass as it slid across the deck of a pirate ship, the bitter sting as it sliced open his cheek, and the cruel mocking laugh of Killian Jones as he’d kicked him like a mangy, unwelcome cur. 

He remembered the months and months of sleepless nights, listening to his beloved Baelfire cry for his faithless mother.

He remembered -- it was all but impossible for him to ever forget.

“I fuck her every night, Rumplestiltskin,” Jones crooned in his ear. “Your _wife_.”

Rumple shook his head, the words shattering him to pieces as he realized the man buried to the hilt in his arse, bringing him to the brink of orgasm, was the man his wife had abandoned her own family to be with. His chest felt tight and hot and he couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t even recognize the taste of her cunt when you were sucking her juices off my cock?” Jones asked incredulously.

“No, sir,” Rumple gasped, and Jones chuckled darkly.

“No. You probably never even tasted her treasures, did you?” The captain mocked, pumping his hips and making Rumple groan beneath him. “That’s why she called you a useless lump, you stupid cunt. You’ve got no idea how to please a woman, do you?” 

Rumple’s breath was caught in his chest, his body shaking as the inevitable pressure building inside him made him shunt his hips backward, his body begging for more even as his mind recoiled. Words stuck in his throat, his tongue thick and dry, and he could do nothing more than shake his head, wanting to block out the terrible truth. 

“Certainly not with that shriveled twig that dangles between your legs,” Jones spat, his thrusts becoming vicious once again. “Your dear, precious wife. The one you begged me to _free_? She laughs when she tells me how pathetic you were as a lover.” The captain slowed, grinding his hips in a slow circle, his cock thick and rigid and deep, and he let out a feral groan of pleasure. Pulling Rumple’s head back by the hair, he leaned in close and growled in his ear. “I can’t wait to tell her how wrong she was.”

“Milah,” he whispered, sobbing. 

“Milah,” Jones agreed. “She worships my cock with her eager mouth almost as prettily as you,” Killian’s mocking voice sang in his ear. “And I love the way she screams and begs for me to fuck her harder while I fill her willing cunt with my seed just like I’m about to fill you.” The captain pulled all the way out and thrust back in slowly, grinding slow circles against his buttocks, and Rumple moaned into the dirt, his body limp and yielding, though his cock throbbed and jerked with every cruel word. His body coiled tight, revulsion warring with the pleasure that was building deep between his hips as Jones continued to thrust in long, languid strokes, pushing him to the brink.

Suddenly, Jones pulled out, leaving his empty hole clutching at nothing. The captain reached for Rumple’s fallen staff, letting his full weight press into the spinner’s back, and crushing the air from his lungs. He struggled feebly as Jones pressed the smooth, worn head against his thoroughly used anus, drawing a thin, desperate whine from his lips.

“Please…” he whispered. The word was barely a breath of air that whooshed from his chest as Jones drove the thick, blunt stick straight up the middle of him, uncaring of what he tore along the way. He wanted to scream and beg for mercy, but the image of the captain’s sharp, cruel knife was too fresh in his mind, and he bit his lips bloody to stay silent. Sobs wracked his small frame as his body trembled against the ruthless onslaught. Jones began to work the length of the pole deeper into his bowel, thrusting and withdrawing, and thrusting again, deeper. 

Rumple gasped and moaned, his stretched hole grasping at the implement as Jones worked it until it wouldn’t go any further in. He was being impaled and he trembled in terror, his body stretched around the thick piece of wood, afraid to struggle or move for fear of tearing something vital.

“I’d like to see this come out of your mouth, you filthy coward. Spit from stem to stern like the gutless pig you are.” He changed the angle and the thick staff sank in another several inches, making Rumple gasp and squirm beneath him, his face a mask of agony beneath the damp strands of his hair that clung to his cheeks. Jones pulled it almost all the way out before sliding it home again with a brutal twist, in and out, what felt to Rumple to be the length of his forearm. As the blunt head of his own walking stick poked against his belly from the inside, he wondered if this was how he would die and if he did, who would care for his son?

“Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded, his face a mess of spit and dirt and tears. “Please, sir. I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Oh I think we’ve already established that,” the captain sneered. “No, I know exactly what I’m doing, whore. You think I haven’t fucked many a worthless, thieving deckhand within an inch of his life with his own swab? No, I’m not gonna kill you unless you scream and bring the authorities down on us. So just lie there and enjoy it, because I know you do, you filthy, craven dog.” He worked the staff, dripping saliva on it, rotating and twisting until it slipped in another several inches, and Rumple could feel it moving deep in his guts. It had stopped hurting, his rectum stretching to accommodate the girth of it, his bowel straightening to accept the length. A feeling of fullness suffused him and the relief of complete submission to the other man’s will. Jones could kill him with the flick of a wrist, Rumple was entirely at his mercy, and the thought made the tension coil deep in his belly. 

“No, I want you to live to think about how utterly worthless and pathetic you are,” he whispered, and Rumple whined. He knew the truth of it.

“I’m gonna make you come in the dirt like the filthy gutter-cunt you are, and then I’m going back to my ship to fuck your darling wife like she’s never been fucked in her life.” He thrust the stick home and Rumple’s body responded, his breath coming in short gasps as the tension wound around the object lodged in his gut. Rumple had never before felt so full, so utterly wrecked or so completely humiliated. His cock throbbed against his belly with every twist and thrust. 

“I can’t wait to tell her how you moaned for me while I used your whore mouth, how you begged for more while I impaled your tight arse. We’ll laugh ourselves sick while I show her how a real man fucks.”

“Please, oh fuck…oh gods. Use me, sir. Fuck. Oh, fuck.” Rumple moaned and writhed, humiliation and pleasure so intense it was burning him like hot coals from the inside. His body arching, limbs rigid, he was a gasping breath away from orgasm.

“Imagine her laughter when I tell her how far up my arse you couldn’t wait to slide your hungry, hole-lapping tongue. Think of her mocking smile when I tell her how you spread your arse-cheeks with your own hands and asked me so nicely to ream your sloppy hole with your own hobble stick.” Jones slowly withdrew the staff from his body and tossed it aside, replacing it with his own rigid cock in one swift thrust, Rumple’s body no longer resisting, he built his rhythm quickly.

“Tonight, when I’m through with you, you filthy mongrel,” he taunted, his solid weight pressing into Rumple’s back as he continued to rut. “The mother of your dear, precious son will thank me while she sucks your stink off my cock, but it’s your whore mouth and your tight, sweet, virgin hole I’ll be thinking of. Though it’s nice and ruined now, isn’t it?” 

Images of Milah and Jones laughing while they mocked his debasement burned through his mind even as the captain’s stiff member burned through his belly like a hot sword. Limbs twisting and back arching, Rumple’s body convulsed, spilling gouts of milky seed into the dirt beneath him. It smeared across his stomach as his body jerked and twitched with violent shocks of trembling pleasure shooting up his spine. 

Grunting out his satisfaction as the spinner’s hot channel gripped him tight and spasmed around him, Jones followed him over the precipice. Pulse after pulse of hot, thick fluid spurted deep into his belly, filling his gut. The coarse hair of Jones’ belly and groin scraped against his buttocks as he ground back against him, milking every drop from the captain’s heavy, tumescent member. There was a surprising jolt of disappointment as the cock inside him began to soften. It slipped from his body with a wet, sucking sound, leaving him once again empty and clutching at air, and with nothing but a feeling of hopeless despair and a worthless, used hole.

Jones grunted, wiping his softening prick on the spinner’s buttocks. He gave him a sharp slap on the arse as he stumbled to his feet, leaving Rumple prone, face down in the dirt. Listening to the soft flap and creak of leather as the captain righted himself, he didn’t dare to move other than to draw up his knees and make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. He held his breath and stared at the captain’s gleaming boots.

“Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in ages, Spinner.” Jones laughed his sneering, barking laugh. He turned over a small leather purse, and Rumple flinched as two heavy silver pieces thumped to the ground near his face along with a few smaller coins.

“A little extra for the quality of your services, but don’t go bruiting it about or the other whores will get high and mighty ideas,” he chuckled darkly as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Rumple alone in the silent, dark alley.

It was a long time before Rumple moved. His body quivered and shook as he uncurled his aching, leaden limbs and struggled to his knees. His ankle should’ve been screaming in agony, but instead an overwhelming numbness had stolen over him, as though a heavy, wet blanket was wrapped around his head and body, blocking out all sound and sensation. 

Rumple tried to push himself to his feet only to fall back with a grunt. He would have to find his fouled stick or crawl home. The thought made him want to retch all over again, and he had to reach down and grab hold of the iron ball of determination that had settled earlier beneath his ribs. He kept his mind fixed on getting back to his son as he searched desperately for his staff, finding where it had rolled into the shadows when Jones had cast it aside covered in his own filth. 

Rumple grimaced, tearing strips from his tattered tunic, and set about cleaning both himself and his walking stick as best he could. He spent a good amount of time spitting and scrubbing until it felt like he might possibly have worn the shame and humiliation from his skin as well as the smooth polished wood. Casting the soiled rags aside, his fingers curled around the comforting shape of the stick, his thumb automatically finding and caressing the familiar notches that marked his son’s birthdays. 

Planting the staff in the dirt, his eyes fixated on the coins still lying scattered on the ground. Bile rose in his throat, his stomach churning, he wanted nothing more than to leave them there for the scavengers to find. Only the thought of Baelfire with a belly full of warm food made him close his eyes and snatch the tainted coins from the dirt, shoving them into his purse with a breathless sob. 

They were his. 

He had earned them.

It was beyond questioning. After everything he’d endured, he had absolutely earned every single one of them… and then some, though he feared that was a debt he would never collect.

No, but he’d take what he was given tonight and not tempt a fate that was never too kind to him on even the best of days. As he turned his face toward home, Rumple pushed away the vision of Milah’s sneering laugh and Jones’ leering grin and let Baelfire’s adoring smile suffuse his heart and his mind. He would be able to provide for his boy, and that was worth any price. The coins he clutched in his fist would feed his son well for a good, long while. 

Jones, Milah, and whoever else he’d find himself at the mercy of could break his body and beat his dignity to a bloody pulp, but they would never steal Bae’s love -- and no sacrifice was too great for that.


End file.
